


Cover Me Up, Know You're Enough

by lafillechanceuse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Comfort Sex, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafillechanceuse/pseuds/lafillechanceuse
Summary: After his captain loses an eye in a border tavern in Nevarra rescuing a Tevinter refugee, company healer and first lieutenant Stitches has his doubts about the newcomer, which are quickly assuaged. Against the backdrop of the Breach, they do their best to fulfill their contract with the Inquisition and hold their lives together as their friendship blooms into something more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shae_C](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shae_C/gifts).



He couldn’t save the eye. 

Stitches knew it right away. With a flail that size, the chief was lucky half his head hadn’t caved in. His grip on the guard’s neck only loosened for the moment of impact, then tensed back up to cope with the pain. 

“No,” The Iron Bull wheezed determinedly, swaying but still upright. The flail thumped to the ground as the person on the floor scrambled backwards. What was it he had told Stitches about the Qun over a dim fire, cups of mulled cider warming their hands, in the early days when it was just them and Dalish bouncing around Thedas without a care in the world? The tide rises, the tide falls, but the mountain stands to bear witness. 

“Enough.” 

They needed no more incentive to move. The rest was a blur. He, pressing a cloth to the chief’s face, Dalish’s ice wrapping round it as they tried to salvage what they could of his left side. Skinner, snarling, daggers whirling and finding their mark. Grim and Rocky, guarding their backs as the guards forfeited their lives on the floor of the tavern. Then, he and Dalish again, moving in tandem with The Iron Bull as he extended a lifeline to the stranger sprawled on the floor, who stared up at them in wonder as if Andraste, the Maker, and her entourage had descended in the flesh from the Golden City to bless him. 

The fog wouldn’t last, Stitches thought with a touch of wryness. It was easy to get swept up by The Iron Bull’s disarming rhetoric and genuine desire to make things right, regardless of whether fixing the problem was feasible or not. The boy—the man, Stitches corrected himself, realizing he could only be a few years younger than him—was still dazed around the edges as they formed a plan of action, forcing himself to stand at parade rest despite the damage to his ribs. The tavern keeper, a cheerful brunette clutching a nasty blackthorn staff in one hand, called over her wife and, together, they sketched a map of the surrounding woods on a nearby napkin. The wife, an old grizzled warrior, pressed them with enough food to last them until they got back over the border and into the safe, sprawling plains of the Free Marches. 

Thanking them, the Bull’s Chargers bade the mostly empty tavern goodbye and set off to the grove nearby to camp. Stitches and Dalish frog-marched The Iron Bull into the first hastily erected tent thrown up to further examine him while the others took care of the rest. Nothing had changed, but in there, they could fuss over him freely. When the scolding caught in his throat and Dalish’s voice turned to water, the three clung to each other without a word. Face pressed against the side of his neck, Stitches breathed in The Iron Bull’s scent and breathed with him, drank in the calm, warm rumble that he had followed faithfully for so long. When he and Dalish left to let Bull rest, they exited the tent arm in arm. 

“The chief is going to be all right,” he announced to the camp, then winced at his choice of words. 

“That was not a joke he told us to make, but he’ll probably appreciate it when he wakes up,” Dalish followed up, gently patting his arm. “We don’t want anyone disturbing him for the rest of the night.” 

“He’s got to eat,” Rocky pointed out. “We can at least save him a plate.” 

“Grim and I will take watch,” Skinner asserted, then stalked over to sit in front of the tent flap.

Grim grunted, then followed her. 

“Yes, we’ll bring you dinner,” Stitches called after him and he waved back. 

“Looks like it’s just us, then,” said Rocky. “How’s the new guy?” 

“Still standing by the oak tree looking badly constipated,” Dalish replied, then turned back to Stitches. “You should go look after him, see how badly he’s hurt. We can take care of things here. Bring him over if he feels like talking; the more helping hands, the better.” 

Squeezing her shoulder gently, he nodded at Rocky and walked over to the other side of the clearing.

“You can sit down, you know. Martyring yourself won’t do your ribs any good.” 

The stranger—Krem, his name was Krem —leaned against the tree, shaking his head. 

“I’m not bad. See to him first.” 

“I did.”

“Well, see to him more.” 

Stitches huffed.

“Said the same thing about you. Look—I’ve been patching the chief up when I haven’t been watching his back since he first set foot in Orlais. He knows his limits, even if he does insist on eating my poultices when he doesn’t want to wait for them to work.”

“His eye—“ 

“He knows what he lost.” 

Stitches took a deep breath.

“And he won’t regret it. He’s no saint, but he would never hold it against you.” 

Krem looked at him as if the sky had fallen down around his ears. 

“Did he really mean all that?”

“Every word.” 

Krem sagged against the tree.

“ _ Maker. _ ”  

“Right? He’s something else, our chief. Not fond of insubordination, though, and I’m fairly certain refusing medical attention from his lieutenant falls under that if you’re going to be traveling with us.”

He could afford a little harshness with The Iron Bull lying in the next tent, battling infection. Krem coughed, deflating slightly and glancing around to make sure they were alone before lowering his voice. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be an ass. It’s just…private, you know? Injuries. And I’ve already caused you enough trouble for one day.”

The king’s tongue faltered and stuttered on his lips. Going quiet, Krem ducked his head. He must be used to speaking Tevene, Stitches reasoned, then softened at the sight of him almost immediately. 

“You didn’t do anything to us. They did. Come on. I’ll just be checking you for bruising and giving you some elfroot to help with the pain. Then the boys and I will leave you alone for the rest of the night.”  

He paused. 

“If you want to be alone,” he hastily added at the hungry look in Krem’s eyes. 

Squaring his shoulders, Krem winced. 

“Right then. Sounds like a plan.” 

They ducked into the nearest available tent. Krem sat down on the bedroll. Beside him, Stitches assembled his kit. 

“I’m going to need you to take off your armor and roll your shirt up to the top of your ribs for me. I’ll pop out of the tent while you do that to get ice from Dalish for the swelling. Yell when you’re ready, all right?” 

He disappeared outside. Rocky waved at him, then went back to preparing dinner. Dalish strode around the perimeter of the camp, setting up the wards for the night. The weight of the day bore down on him, exhaustion settling in his bones. He barely heard Krem calling his name. Blearily, he shook himself, then re-entered the tent.

“All right. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” 

Judging by the colors of the bruises, Krem had taken quite the beating before the Chargers came to his aid. Yellow, purple, black, even a hint of green—but nothing that looked particularly life threatening.  With gentle fingertips, Stitches palpitated his abdomen. 

“I know it all hurts, but tell me where it gets particularly painful.” 

His patient stared steadfastly at the wall of the tent, grimacing. 

“The farther up you get.” 

“So, around the top of your ribs?” 

Stitches tested it. Krem gritted his teeth.

“ _ Fasta vass _ —“ 

The curse cut off with a yelp when Stitches pressed the ice to the bruises.

“Sorry, sorry. I know the cloth doesn’t do much. We could rig up some kind of ice vest, but I think for now, your best bet is plenty of water and elfroot, a good meal, and a good night’s rest. I don’t particularly like how they look, but I’m not seeing anything that says internal bleeding. Let me know if anything changes.” 

“Of course.” 

Krem gratefully gulped the potion down. 

“Don’t think I’ll be going anywhere for the rest of the night.” 

“Then the tent is yours. We’ve got more than enough space and the better you rest, the quicker you’ll heal.” 

He nodded, settling himself on the bedroll in earnest.

“Stitches?” 

He paused, hand on the tent flap. 

“Yeah?” 

“Thank you.” 

* * *

In the months that came, Krem’s deft hands, dogged determination not to be a burden, and good-natured sense of humor proved to be a blessing. Despite The Iron Bull’s best efforts, losing an eye could not be shrugged off. His adjustment to living with permanently altered vision in addition to his other injuries left them shorthanded, even with them all putting in a bit more effort to pick up the slack. Stitches had juggled the dual responsibilities of lieutenant and company healer since they had split off from Fisher’s Bleeders, but with Bull’s injuries, it had begun to wear on him. Krem acting as a second lieutenant helped immensely. The Chargers appreciated him as they would any other member, but they gave each other their share of grief, too.

Of all people, no one expected Skinner to take to him first.

There was the rub with The Chargers. Give them an inch and they would ask for half a foot, then a mile, then several hundred miles, followed by enough ridiculous numbers to wear you down to what they wanted. As individuals, they could be managed, but the group would cheerfully barrel over any expectations or obligations they might try to be forced to fulfill without hesitation. Surely, Stitches thought, Krem would fare no differently than the poor fools in the past who had tried to match his or The Iron Bull’s leadership. 

And then, there was that one job with the feathers.

No, no. 

Not  _ that _ job with the feathers. 

The  _ other  _ job with the feathers. The one that the Chargers never talked about in mixed company, not even on the quietest, darkest nights when they broke out the Ferelden liquor Stitches swore was mostly crystal grace that tended to thin paint and eat through wood if left alone long enough to drink the night away.  

This job started in a brothel in Nevarra curiously adjacent to the nearest mausoleum. Their client, a Mortalitasi with a stare that surely unnerved the dead as much as it did the living and a penchant for unnecessarily long, heavy cloaks, suspected a young, inexperienced upstart who thought he was a big enough fish to be his rival of stealing his most prized possession, a staff passed down through his family for generations. The Chargers were to recover it discreetly while he entertained himself in the brothel and return it to their client posthaste. A handsome bribe to the madam gave them the keys to the room where the thief would be seeing the courtesan he was hopelessly infatuated with that night. 

“You think our man ever entertains himself outside of there?” 

Rocky whispered, jerking his head back in the direction of the mausoleum. Grim shook his head. 

“Quiet,” Stitches hissed at the two of them. “Our target’s about to go in.” 

From their position in the alley, they watched him walk past. A block behind him, Skinner and Krem pretended to stumble arm in arm, their boisterous shouts in Orlesian and Tevene respectively ringing out through the air. Once he entered the brothel, they ducked into the alleyway and over to the others. 

“Saw the chief and Dalish telling stories at the bar,” said Krem. “They’re very popular with the staff.” 

“No bars on the window,” Skinner said. “Or locks. We’ll be up as soon as the signal comes.” 

“Good,” said Stitches, leaning against the wall. “Shouldn’t be long now.” 

The door to the brothel swung open, The Iron Bull’s voice carrying.

“So, when he called me daddy, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Next thing I knew, I patted him on the ass and told him that honestly, I wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility.” 

Dalish shrieked with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. Under cover of their merriment, Krem and Skinner hopped up onto the wall with a boost from Grim and began to scale the building.  A moment later, the two of them joined the rest of the Chargers in the alley.

“True story, you know,” Dalish informed the others and barely suppressed a yelp when The Iron Bull elbowed her none too gently in the ribs. 

“Is that right, ser,” Stitches replied with a straight face as Grim and Rocky pointedly stared at the wall. 

“Go get the horses, you wiseasses.” 

The Iron Bull replied as he scanned the side of the building, then exhaled with relief.

Smartly saluting the two of them, Rocky, Grim, and Dalish left them to wait under the bedroom window of their target. 

Stitches patted his bicep without fear.

“Can’t always say the right thing in the heat of the moment, ser.” 

“Not another word,” The Iron Bull growled with one last glare. 

A tense silence followed before the shouting in Nevarran started.

“What’s he saying?” 

Stitches asked Bull urgently, straining to look up and see the silhouette of Krem in the window.

“How dare you…you insolent…oh, good. They made him so mad he switched to Trade.” 

For a man who spent most of his day with corpses, he had an impressive set of lungs. 

“What do we do?” 

Stitches hissed. 

“Not much we can—wait.” 

The Iron Bull held up his hand as Krem began to talk upstairs. Overhead, a staff slowly began to snake its way out of the window, Skinner following it to perch on the windowsill. She waved to them and put a finger to her lips. As he spoke, Krem gradually backed up against the window, his left hand yanking the staff towards him.

And that was when it all went to shit. 

A blast of feathers came out of the staff, knocking Skinner from her perch and sending Krem flying backwards. By the grace of the Maker, or the Prophet, or whatever patron deities had decided to watch over the Chargers for a lark, The Iron Bull managed to catch and set both of them down in the darkness without accidentally goring either of them on his horns. Bemused, Krem clutched the staff to his chest. Running out of the alleyway, they caught up with the others and galloped as fast and as far as they could out of town and into the surrounding woods. 

The sky had turned grey when the Chargers collapsed in a heap off their mounts in the thick of the Nevarran forest. Rolling over on his back in the grass, Krem turned to Skinner with a wheeze and the two of them howled like demons until tears wet their faces. After what seemed an eternity, they finally stopped.

“Okay.” 

The Iron Bull panted, propping himself up on an elbow. 

“Okay. You wanna tell us what that was all about?” 

A weak round of giggles followed. Stitches crawled over to them. Krem rested a hand on his shoulder. 

“We can never tell anyone else. Anyone. All right?” 

“Dear sweet, holy blessed Andraste, I am afraid,” said Stiches fervently in the direction of what he assumed was the sky, then rolled over again and closed his eyes. “Deliver us from evil and this mess. Go ahead.” 

“Wasn’t our fault.” 

“Of course,” Rocky groaned. 

“He was in a robe and a pointy hat,” Skinner said hoarsely. “Nothing else. Her hands were tied to the bed.” 

“They were role playing. Sounded like he’d pretended to kidnap her and she was pretending to resist. She tried her best to get him away from the wardrobe, Maker bless her soul, but his aim was shit.” 

“He hit the door handles and knocked it open,” Skinner replied, scooting over to lean her head on Krem’s shoulder. If Stitches had any strength left in his body, he would have clasped his hands in supplication. Skinner barely let anyone within the company touch her at the best of times. Even Dalish. 

“Lot of goose down all over the floor, but I didn’t think much of it. I was trying to convince him the madam had hired me to play hero to his villain and let Skinner get away,” Krem continued. “Kept trying to jab me with his staff, but I didn’t waver. She was almost out the window when I grabbed it. Knocked us both down.” 

“Feathers,” Skinner wheezed with fresh laughter and buried her face in his shoulder. “Feathers.” 

“He didn’t know how to use it!” Dalish exclaimed gleefully, comprehension dawning on her face. “He must’ve done it that way to impress her and couldn’t get it off!”

In the wake of that revelation, all the night’s tension, all their worries and fears, melted away.  Their cries of mirth joined with birdsong as the sun rose, the light of dawn warming their faces. A deep sense of peace washed over the camp once they had exhausted themselves. Stitches breathed deeply, completely at ease. They had finished the job and gotten through the night. That was all that mattered. 

“But where did the feathers come from,” Grim mused aloud out of the blue and set them all off again. 


	2. Chapter 2

The nightmares had come back.

Shame, really. He had gotten used to not waking up hoarse in a cold sweat every night. After the Blight, everyone got them at home…well, the ones who were left, anyway.  They came and went with no rhyme or reason, but had dwindled to once every six months at most. There was no strife within the company that would cause it. They got better contracts every time, despite that one job in Nevarra no one ever spoke of again, and with Krem and the most difficult member of the Chargers thick as thieves, the others had long since fallen into line. He, The Iron Bull, and Krem had planned this transition of Krem taking over as first lieutenant for a year and everything was going without a hitch. 

Why would they come back now? 

Hunched over by the fire, he stared into the flames. The scars on his face twinged as he remembered the stench of darkspawn blood and burning flesh, the panicked cries of his family, his eldest sister’s hands on his cheeks hastily brushing the fallen embers off his face--

“Stitches?”

None of the children had died or been corrupted, their farm was not burnt to ash, but at what cost? 

“Stitches!” 

He dimly heard Dalish hush Krem, her gentle hands smoothing over his shoulders. 

“Walk with me, lethallin.” 

The burr of her voice warmed him. Slowly, he stood at her direction and plodded away from the fire, her arm in his. Dalish led him along the short path to the nearby stream. She drew water from it with her tin cup, offering it to him. He took it gratefully and drank deep, savoring the coolness on his tongue like a fine wine.

“You’re allowed to be upset, you know.” 

“It’s not—“ 

He slumped down on a nearby boulder. Perching beside him, she waited patiently for him to finish. 

“I’m not upset with him. Really. He’s more than ready to take this on. It’s just--”  

“The dreams.” 

“You must’ve felt them, too.” 

Not accusatory, but pleading as he propped himself up. 

“Always fascinated me, your family’s traces of magic. They’re very strong, even in the ones who aren’t mages. Not that I should be surprised. I don’t meet many humans who keep up with their old ways.” 

She leaned back on her elbows. 

“I’ve had them, too. It could be nothing.” 

“Yeah. Doesn’t feel like nothing when they’re like this, though.” 

Leaning over, she rested her head atop his, blonde hair tickling his face. 

“I know. Best not to dwell on it and upset the others until they actually mean something. ” 

“I’d prefer the ones about Kirkwall compared to these. At least they let us pull the chief out of the fire before it spread.”

Dalish hummed agreement. The Chargers had spent a tense three years avoiding anywhere remotely near the Free Marches during the occupation of the city and subsequent mass exodus of the Tal Vashoth and Vashoth populations. Between the Antaam, the Ben Hassrath, and the Chantry- approved anti-Qunari sentiment, the three-sided vice the situation created invalidated the handful of stray contracts they might have considered keeping. 

“Never did find out what the statues coming to life meant. Not sure I want to.”  

“With any mercy, we never will.” 

They lay in a comfortable silence, watching the sun set. By the time they returned to camp, the Chargers had settled in for the night. Krem and Grim sat by the fire keeping watch, the others asleep in their tents. 

“You all right?” 

Stitches nodded. 

“Just needed some air.” 

“If you have a moment, I’d like to talk.” 

He took a seat on the log across from Krem. 

“I’m all ears.”  

Dalish bumped Stitches with her hip and gave him an encouraging smile before exchanging looks with Grim.  The two of them went off to their respective tents with Rocky and Skinner without comment. 

“So what do you want to know?”

Krem cleared his throat. 

“Just wanted to clear the air.” 

Folding his hands, he leaned forward and spoke softly.

“You know, I could never think less of you. Maker knows anyone who can handle this lot is tough as nails and a sharp one to boot. I was worried when you left that you were upset with me about how we’re handling the transition.” 

Stitches nodded. 

“That’s fair. I’m not, but I could see why you’d think that. It’ll be nice after all this time to try to remember what I did for fun before I spent my days patching up the others and putting out fires.” 

“What do you do for fun?” 

Stitches furrowed his brow.

“Bit hard to remember, to be honest. Used to whittle when I could find scraps. We made cheese and brewed beer on the farm, but it’s hard to take on the road. Can carry a tune for any Ferelden song you’d like to name, but I’m no bard. I read a bit, but it’s mostly Hard in Hightown and medical treatises from the book merchant in Val Royeaux. It’ll be nice to find out what I like again.” 

“I bet.” 

“You make those stuffed nugs with wings, right?” 

“It’s more of a habit than practice. My sisters took their toys everywhere. Practically ripped them apart.  I was always mending a tear in some nug’s ear or fixing the stuffing for some nug’s leg. Gave a couple out to the locals when I did a few tours on the Tevinter borders. They always liked that. They liked me.” 

“You must miss it.” 

“I do, but not the pressure to hide. Nice to be somewhere I don’t have to pretend and you lot aren’t so bad.” 

“We do try,” Stitches said with a primness to put Divine Victoria to shame. Krem choked on air, covering his mouth with both hands to muffle his laughter. Warmth stirred in Stitches’ chest at the sight of him. 

“Was there anything else?” 

Krem frowned. 

“Yes, one more thing. You have dreams, right? And sometimes the things you see happen.”

Stitches raised his eyebrows. 

“Yes?” 

“I was wondering…”

Krem swallowed hard.

“If you saw me in them. If anything happens because of me.” 

“Oh! Maker. No.” 

He shook his head briskly. 

“It doesn’t work like that. I get…flashes. Impressions. Moments of things. Dalish gets them, too, but I don’t think she gets much more than I do. I’ve had them as long as I can remember. Sometimes they bring up the bad and that’s….what happened today.” 

“I see.” 

“They don’t always make sense, either. I remember there was one with an Antivan crow, dwarven crafts from Orzammar, a frightened blood mage who was terrible at magic, and a cheese wheel and none of it ever came to pass. Chief still harps on it. He rather fancied the Crow after he made me describe him.” 

Krem chuckled.

“Sounds like him.” 

“He’s a giant pain in the arse, but he’s our giant pain in the arse.” 

Stitches coughed.

“You, uh, might want to watch your tone, though, when you’re giving someone else a serious talk.” 

Krem groaned and covered his face with both hands.

“I’m doing the voice, aren’t I.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I didn’t even realize I’d slipped into it. Did he rub off on you that much?” 

Stitches patted his shoulder.

“He’s very good at soothing. I used to do it, too. You’ll find your own in time. Let’s get to bed before the chief drags us out at the crack of dawn. I wish he wouldn’t charge off on his own every time we fought giants.” 

“Least you know where he is, right?” 

“Until he does a running jump and takes a few years off my life,” Stitches said dryly. 

“Didn’t realize you had to worry about it, old man,” Krem shot back with a cheeky grin.  

Huffing, Stitches halfheartedly aimed a punch at his shoulder, which he dodged.

“Go to bed, Aclassi. You’ll be grateful for it.” 

A sound escaped Krem’s mouth before what he had begun to say hastily turned to mumbling. Coughing, he bade him a quick goodnight. Stitches wished him the same, rubbing at one of his ears. His hearing must be going if he thought Krem had said something about him and preferences before going to bed. 

* * *

_ Thwick.  _

The arrow hit the enemy archer in the chest with a satisfying thud. Stitches grinned, relishing in the familiar rhythm of the fight. Blood pumping, hands moving almost automatically to his quiver to reload, aim, and draw, the steady snap of the bowstring when he released the arrows and let them fly. In front of him, Krem’s maul matched the time of his arrows, swinging down to hit the warrior approaching him just in time. It was early in the fight, but they already had the edge. Maybe if they finished early, their patron would even give them a bonus. The thought spurred Stitches on as he shot the last enemy immediately in front of them.

Then, the sky ripped apart. 

Well, shit. 

Three demons fell to the ground in front of them in a crumpled heap. The tallest rose from its crouch, green skin stretched tight over long, jutting bones, and screeched at them. Krem froze, knuckles white as he clenched his maul. Behind him, Stitches carefully took aim and shot it in the eye. Knocked down, its scream of pain jolted Krem out of his stupor and he smashed its skull in with a single blow. 

“Thanks,” he panted before lunging at one of the shades who had flanked them.

“Welcome,” Stitches shot back, firing at their new target. 

The demon swiped at Krem fruitlessly until it caught a blow to the chest and tumbled to the ground. Stitches stepped forward, then cried out when the claws of the other demon sank into his armor. In an instant, Krem rushed between them, swinging his maul into the demon’s side with a sickening thud. It fell and didn’t get up. 

“Thanks,” Stitches wheezed.

“Welcome,” Krem replied, steadying him. “You all right?” 

“Didn’t get through the mail. Just took me by surprise.” 

They ran to the center of the field, Dalish and Skinner meeting them from the west and Rocky and Grim from the east. The Iron Bull thundered in from the north, clutching the rival company’s banner in one hand. 

“Can’t lose this,” he said, tucking it in his pocket and looping the rest through his belt with a square knot to secure it. “I took what else I could. No one else is alive, so let’s move before anything else comes—“ 

Then, the giant black— _ thing _ , it dwarfed the giant by comparison—landed four yards in front of them with a laugh that rasped against Stitches’ composure like a hacksaw and claws the size of tree saplings. 

“Pride demon,” Dalish said weakly, the color draining from her face. 

“Size says a lot about us, doesn’t it,” The Iron Bull mused, hefting his great axe. 

Skinner glared at it, then turned to Stitches and Rocky.

“Ankles,” she said and they nodded.

“Should go down like anything else if we get the tendons on the backs of its heels,” Stitches replied.

“We’ll keep it distracted,” Krem said. Grim hummed agreement. 

“Watch out for its lightning whip,” Dalish warned them. “I’ll dispel its guard and keep the barriers up, but get as close as you can or stay out of range. They throw lightning, too, that slows you down if you’re not careful.” 

“Thanks for doing the heavy lifting,” The Iron Bull said, beaming at them. “Plan like this, we can’t lose.” 

“Right!” 

They answered in unison. 

“Chargers! Horns up!”

The Iron Bull roared.

“Horns up!” 

Krem answered as they threw themselves into the fight. 

The air tasted different. Desperate, Stitches thought as he watched Krem hack away at the monster, his arrows thudding into the monster’s ankles. The demon’s lightning crackled in the damp air, matching the oncoming storm created by the breach in the sky. The Chargers approached most of their fights with an exuberant dedication to finishing the task at hand. They chose their battles; he could count on one hand the number of times they had been thrust into a fight without choice. This, he thought, keeping his eyes on the flexing muscles of Krem’s back to ground himself, was pure survival. If any of the other dreams he and Dalish shared came true, they would be facing enemies and fights like this for the foreseeable future. He didn’t like that, not one bit.  

Subdued, the Chargers departed once the pride demon fell, Skinner leaning on Dalish and Grim resting against Krem as they limped towards the road. They stayed in an inn on the outskirts of Val Royeaux to recover while The Iron Bull contacted their patron and hear what little the other guests and staff knew. When the word got around that the survivor of the explosion, their so-called Herald of Andraste, would be meeting with the Chantry mothers in the heart of the city, The Iron Bull sent Krem and Skinner to investigate on behalf of everyone else. The two of them returned somber, Skinner clenching her fists. 

“Typical shemlen bullshit,” she muttered to Dalish and Rocky, flopping down in an empty chair and lifting the flagon Rocky offered her to her lips with a grunt of thanks. Krem sighed, slumping in the other chair and chugging half the pint Stitches gave him. The rest of the inn’s residents gathered round them to hear the news.  

“The Chantry declared the Herald of Andraste a false prophet. Then, Lord Seeker Lucius marched in with the Templars and the rest of the Seekers and punched the head mother in front of everyone before claiming Val Royeaux was unworthy of their protection and leaving.” 

“Then what’s the Chantry and the Templars doing about the hole in the sky?”

The innkeeper asked tremulously, hands twisting in the hem of his shirt.  

“Nothing.”

Skinner spat, a string of Orlesian curses following.  

The collective indignation of the crowd shook the foundations of the inn. Incredulously, Grim jabbed his finger up at the ceiling. Krem threw up his hands, then downed the rest of his ale in one gulp. 

“ _ I know! _ They’ve cloistered themselves in the Grand Cathedral until they appoint another Divine to fix all this, but they don’t give a damn if the hole in the sky swallows us all before they stop arguing. ”

“At least the Southern Chantry’s consistent,” Rocky murmured to Dalish and Grim, who agreed. 

Discreetly, The Iron Bull gestured with a horn in the direction of the stairs and the Chargers quietly followed him out of the tavern and to his room. Taking the desk chair and laying both palms flat atop his thighs, he waited for them to arrange themselves on the bed and the floor before speaking. 

“We’ve got a side job before we figure out which of our contracts have gone to seed.” 

“What’s going on?” Stitches asked. 

“Ben Hassrath orders. There’s a cult in Tevinter gaining prominence and they don’t like it.” 

Krem shrugged from his seat on the rug.

“So, more bored alti breeding them like weeds. Why’s this one special?” 

“They’re Tevinter supremacists emulating the magisters of old who supposedly invaded the Golden City and created the Blight. Even for your country, that’s a little much. They call themselves the Venatori.”  

“The Hunters,” Krem translated automatically, frowning. “What’re they after?” 

“Don’t know, but they’ve been linked to red lyrium. A group of them, posing as mercenaries, are gathering out on the Storm Coast. They’re probably just establishing a presence before they bring anything in, but we’re going to nip this in the bud while we can since no one else is doing shit.” 

“No one but the Inquisition,” Krem pointed out with a gleam in his eyes.

Shifting, The Iron Bull sat back on his haunches and motioned at him with one hand.

“Go on.”  

“They’re doing good work, chief; you said it yourself. And they’ve got a lot more power behind them than we do—the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, the Imperial Enchanter, the Antivan ambassador to the empress’s court—“

“The knight-commander of Kirkwall’s second-in-command,” he interjected. 

“A double edged sword,” Krem acknowledged readily. “But they’ve got something here no one else in Thedas has. They have mages and templars and they’ve done more work to end that war than the Chantry ever has and they’re going to do something about the breach. We don’t nearly have that much influence or magic to work with, even if we contract out with other companies, and they could use you as much as your Ben Hassrath could use them.”  

His eyes narrowed.

“And I bet they’ve already asked you to sniff them out.” 

The Iron Bull didn’t deny the statement. 

“You want us to contract with them?” 

“Good fights for a good cause,” Krem quipped. “Can’t think of a much better one than sealing up the sky before too many demons pour out. Their Herald’s a former Carta dwarf, not some starry-eyed believer blinded by their faith. She knows which way the wind is blowing.  We can fight, be bodyguards, gather information. We’re versatile. She won’t let us be hard up for work.” 

The Iron Bull rubbed his chin with one hand. 

“You’re pushing this hard.”  

“I wouldn’t if I didn’t think it wasn’t worth it.” 

The corners of Krem’s lips quirked up into a smile.

“Besides, if we start early enough, I’m sure we won’t see that many demons.” 

The Iron Bull relented. 

“Go to Haven, then. You have two weeks to convince her to meet us at the Storm Coast.” 

“I won’t let you down, chief,” Krem promised with a grin that radiated wholesomeness. 

Stitches suddenly felt very old and very tired. Where did he find his hope? It was an uneasy sleep they settled into. After today, anything could throw itself in their path. 


	3. Chapter 3

Toril Cadash knew their worth the moment she set foot on the Storm Coast. She spoke plainly and asked tough questions, but ensured they knew exactly what they were choosing to get into. While complimentary of the Inquisition’s cause, she did not sugarcoat the situation. For a political prisoner held against her will, propped up as a figurehead of a religion she took no part in, she was determined to get as much good out of it as she possibly could. At the end of the day, no one could fault her for that. 

The Left Hand of the Divine serving as her shrewd spymaster, a clever but fair ambassador who hammered out the best contract the Chargers had ever seen in their lives, and a surprisingly stable commander served as her advisors, in addition to the former Right Hand. Despite their influence, Toril would not be swayed from her plan. 

“We have an in with the Templars and they’re the biggest threat to us right now.”

The Carta never liked competition, Stitches noted. Cullen stood behind her silently, arms folded. 

“The mages are out of the way. We cleared out their main camp after we destroyed the Templar settlement and the few stray apostates who didn’t bugger off to Redcliffe know better to avoid us. Still, I’d like you to scout through the Hinterlands and confirm that before we move on Therinfal Redoubt.” 

“Understood.” 

“Bull, you’re coming with me to watch my back and make the templars shit themselves. Think you can manage that?”

She grinned at him cheekily, which he returned.

“It’ll be tough, boss. I’ve only made my whole career out of it.” 

“We can scout Redcliffe again and see how amenable the mages would be after that,” Krem offered. 

“Good thinking,” Toril replied. “We’ll iron that out once you get back. I doubt it’ll be an offer they can refuse. You’re dismissed.” 

Saluting with a sharpness that would have made the Arishok weep, the Chargers packed their bags and saddled up.  

Their journey wound through every nook and cranny, scouring the Hinterlands for every last apostate who might have dared to draw breath. They pushed hard until they reached the camp at Dwarfson’s Pass. One of the supply wagons broke a wheel and an axle on a large rock embedded in the path. Scouts clustered round it, attempting to fix what they could in the couple of hours before the sun would set. 

“Right. Are we going to help them with that?” 

Krem said, digging through his knapsack for tools.

“Most of us,” The Iron Bull replied. 

“Most of us?” 

Stitches echoed, then murmured an apology to the unfortunate recruit crying out at the sting of the poultice on his wounded arm.  The Iron Bull gestured to the Chargers already making their way over.

“We are. You’re—“ He raised his lone eyebrow meaningfully at Stitches. “Making use of your local connections and gathering any information from the villagers in the area that might be useful.” 

Stitches finished applying the poultice in his hand to the recruit, then dismissed him. 

“Really, ser.” 

“Scout Harding’s off on a similar mission. Be back by sunrise with her, everyone will look the other way.” 

Stitches crossed his arms.

“And if—“

“We’re not leaving camp until the wagon wheel’s fixed. We have Dalish. We have wards. We’ll be fine.” 

The Iron Bull softened, almost imperceptibly. 

“Stitches, the Divine is dead, at least half of Thedas is at war, the sky has torn itself asunder and demons are pouring out of it. Who knows what it’ll be next? The ground? Another Blight? You can’t waste this.” 

He was right.

“You’re still here?” 

Bull waved him off.

“Go on. Get out of here. Go see your family.”

No need to tell him twice. Stitches nodded, then disappeared off into the hills. 

The mountain path rose sharply, twisting and turning with steep drops that would have the sturdiest adventurer tumbling to their death. Stitches could walk it in his sleep, though, and it eventually leveled out to a large hill. Smoke rose from the chimney, the windows lit with a warm glow. Frost-bitten pumpkins and gourds piled up in the large vegetable garden in front of the large house as a woman with fluffy grey hair and a wide mouth plucked them from the ground and put them in the basket beside her. 

“Mam?” 

She nearly dropped the basket. 

“You’re home!” 

They embraced.

“Oh, Arcill.” 

She sighed into the curve of his neck as he breathed in her scent of linen and fresh bread with a hint of elfroot. 

“We were so worried.” 

“I know, mam. I was worried for you, too.”  

Kissing both his cheeks, she held him at arms’ length and smiled.

“It’s good to have you home. Your letters aren’t always enough. Your sister’s out back in the hold. You should see her first. I’ll call the children in from the woods before dark and then we’ll have supper.”

“I brought you some help with that.”  

He handed her the basket. 

“It’s not much, but—“

“It’s more than enough. I would be just as happy if you hadn’t.” 

Kissing her cheek one last time, Stitches let go and went around the side of the house to the thatched building in back. Smoke rose from a hole in the thatched roof, the smell of burnt juniper permeating the air. Closing his eyes, he stood still for a moment and inhaled. When he opened them, he found the door unlatched. 

The figure in the middle of the hold stood tall, just a little bit taller than him. A white pelt draped over her head, back, and shoulders, her hands rose over the fire pit in the center. A thick belt accentuated her black gambeson, the silver woven throughout glinting in the flames. Stitches coughed. 

“Ancestors, Kaehlah, I’m—“ 

Kaehlah threw her arms around his neck. 

“Arcill, you’re home!” 

Her silver eyes sparkled as he returned her hug, a few black wisps escaping her pelt. 

“Took you long enough, little brother,” she said in an undertone, lightly pinching the top of his ear. 

“You fancy dragging me around again for not visiting sooner? I wouldn’t. We both ended up in the lake last time we wrestled this out.”   

“Twins’ll put you in the lake soon enough. They’ve really missed you. Rualah, too, though she spends most of her time with the baker’s girl in the next village over when it’s safe to travel for supplies.” 

She let him go. Stitches turned to the red wispy forms flanking the fire pit and bowed, the fire roaring as he tossed a fresh juniper branch in the flames. 

“I greet you, worthy ones, and I thank you for safeguarding our health and our hold.” 

The middle spirit floated forward and reached out to him. Its ghostly hands cupped his face, smoothing over his cheeks as it bent and pressed incorporeal lips to his forehead. Stitches felt a pinprick of heat where it left its blessing. Kaehlah watched quietly, then bade them goodbye and let him outside. 

“I left the offerings with the gifts I gave Mam. She’s got the basket.”

“Good. We’ll do that later.” 

She sighed.    

“We’ve had a hard time of it. Lot of bad omens.” 

“What have you seen?”

“Oh, only all the idiots with swords and shields that didn’t die at the Conclave or in battle. Templars, mostly. They’ve gone out of their way to muck up anyone with a good chance of surviving. Did you hear about that poor widow?” 

“The Inquisition killed her husband’s murderers and got the ring back,” he said. “Have you thought of joining up?”

“And leave the farm and the hold? Never. We haven’t had any of them make it up here and live.”

She rested her hand on the pommel of the sword hanging from her hip.

“Your Inquisitor’s kept them at bay this long. All we have to do is hold out until the dust settles.” 

Her stare hardened.

“It will, one way or another.” 

Stitches could hardly argue with that.   

In the distance, he could see two ten year old children racing each other down the hill leading up to the mountain. Ninne leapt laughing over a boulder, her brown braids bouncing. Ivorne ran a hand through his locs and scowled at his sister, then attempted to catch up. Rualah, basket on her hip and several braces of freshly caught nugs dangling from her other shoulder, waved to them from the top.

“They’re better than when you left last.” 

She leaned against his shoulder and he rested his head on hers.

“Even after the anniversary this year?” 

“Time doesn’t stand still when you leave, you know.” 

Stitches sighed. 

“Terrible thing, what happened to their parents.”  

“They don’t remember much. Blessing and a curse, in my mind. If Da hadn’t—“

She stopped and Stitches put his arm around her. 

“You know Da. All those Chasind legends he used to tell us on cold nights that his mam told him because it was all of the tradition they had left on that side of the family. Just like him, really, to be a hero.” 

“Yeah.”

They watched Rualah carefully make her way down the hill, the twins barreling towards them. 

“Nice to see what you’re fighting for occasionally.” 

Stitches said with a sincere fondness.  

“I bet.” 

Kaehlah lowered her voice. 

“You will let us know whatever happens?” 

“I can’t tell you when I’ll visit next, but I promise I’ll make it through and do my best to write.” 

“I’ll take that.” 

Letting out a grunt, Stitches stepped back as the twins tumbled into him with excited yells, latching round his waist. Ivorne insisted he won the race and Ninne cheated by jumping over the rocks by way of greeting, insisting he tell her he was the victor. Naturally, Ninne stuck out her tongue at him and blew raspberries, pointing out he stopped to sulk when she found a way onwards, and surely, a man of discernment such as Stitches could see that. He savored their joy, their laughter, the warmth of their bodies against his, then politely suggested that as head of the family, his mother should decide. 

They waited for Rualah to join them, then returned to the house for a feast, drinking mulled wine and cider by the fire and telling stories long into the night. He helped his mam clean up, the two of them the last to go to bed. She pressed a small pouch of ashes into his hand before he washed up, to spread on the hearth wherever they landed next to bless it and make it a home worth having. He only hoped their blessing would stay.

* * *

Stitches returned to camp lighter the following morning, purpose renewed. Scout Harding walked with him, the two of them carefully picking their small talk to bolster their excuses and avoid talking about what happened next could mean for the future of their families. The other Chargers, who had no families they could return to or keep ties with, gave him as much space as they could afford. The next day, the Inquisitor, along with The Iron Bull, Cassandra, and Vivienne, left for Therinfal Redoubt. The Chargers set off for Redcliffe the following morning. 

“We have a problem.” 

Skinner announced when she and Rocky returned from scouting to the camp they had set up once they arrived in the afternoon. 

“How big a problem?”

Krem asked. 

Rocky spread his hands, then frowned and stretched them wider before giving up.

“You’d better come see for yourself.” 

The rift above the gates of Redcliffe crackled, tendrils of green energy shifting in the twilight. They tensed, but the handful of demons in front of it did not attack. Stitches squinted. He could see them breathing, the muscles in their limbs contracting and releasing, but only if he concentrated. 

“It’s slowing down,” said Dalish. “So’s everything else near it.” 

Stitches rubbed his eyes, then looked again. She was right. 

“Feels wrong,” he said, the two of them moving closer to each other. 

“Like the air before a thunderstorm,” she agreed. 

Before them, the rift began to warp, flickering like lightening. The demons unfroze, the terror’s screech piercing the air for an instant before it darted forward at an alarming speed, flanked by the others. The Chargers broke ranks and ran, not stopping until they put enough distance between them and the rift.

“What now?” Skinner panted when they finally tired themselves out. 

“We can’t seal it without the mark,” wheezed Dalish, flopping against a nearby tree. 

Stitches held up a hand, then yanked his water skein from his belt and drank deep. Krem did the same. 

“So, are we sending word to the chief? Inquisitor might be patrolling,” said Rocky.

Grim grunted wearily. 

“He’s right,” said Stitches. “Even if she is, we don’t have enough time. She could be at Dwarfson’s Pass, for all we know.”   

They all looked to Krem. He cleared his throat. 

“Right. We’re supposed to receive word from the Nightingale tonight with more information about the castle. I’ll pass it on to her and we’ll sleep on it. We can figure out another way to get in tomorrow.”  

The dreams returned full force that night.

His uncle cried for help in the background, his father shoving Rualah and the twins into a closet at the back of the house. On the ground, his mother wailed and sobbed over the fallen body of his aunt. His sister, beside him and bloodstained, bracing her foot on a hurlock’s corpse to yank her sword out of its chest. A woman keened, screamed, shrieked almost in his ear, the darkspawn upon---wait, was it Dalish? 

Yes, Dalish, screaming one last time before quieting. 

“Stitches.” 

Someone shook him. 

“Stitches!” 

Throat parched, he opened his eyes to Krem’s hands on his shoulders, his face filled with concern. 

“It’s all right.” 

He must have been screaming, too. Numb, he let Krem pull him into his arms. 

“You’re all right.”

They stayed that way until he gently tapped Krem’s shoulder.

“I’ve got my bearings, thanks.” 

Krem let him go. 

“You didn’t wake the others. Something—“

He scrunched up his face.

“Felt wrong. You and Dalish started screaming before it happened. Went out over the whole valley, like a wave. Even woke Rocky up before the ground started shaking. No demons, though, thank the Maker.”  

“Skinner with her now?”

Krem nodded. 

“Grim and I didn’t see anything around camp, so there’s no point investigating it till morning.”

“Right.” 

The dim light of the banked fire illuminated the hollows of Krem’s cheeks. He looked exhausted. 

“You can stay,” Stitches offered, squeezing his knee. “I sleep better with someone else by me.” 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, practically collapsing beside him without another word. Stitches helped him adjust to a more comfortable position before bedding down himself. Krem’s buzz cut tickling his nose, he drifted off.  

The next morning found them all wan and weary, huddled around the fire and pointedly avoiding looking at each other. Skinner stampeded into camp at a frantic pace, barely coming to a stop.  

“It’s gone.” 

The rift had disappeared. 

Rocky blew open the gates. No guards came to fight them. 

They split up to search for survivors. Stitches walked through empty houses and merchant stalls, jogged through empty barns and the silent mill house, dashed through abandoned streets. The boats moored at the dock bumped gently against the pier, their contents left intact. He saw pots over the hearth, places set, beds rumpled, as if the whole town just stepped out for a moment, but no sign of any living being. 

“There’s no one here.”

He reported back to the others a few minutes later. 

“The candles in the Chantry are still burning,” said Skinner grimly.

“We put them out. Fire hazard,” Rocky clarified. “Couldn’t find anyone, but it looked like they were ready to start their services.” 

“Dalish? Grim?” 

Krem prompted. Dalish shook her head. Grim handed him some papers. Reading through them, Krem’s hands began to tremble. By the time he finished, he turned pale and shoved the papers in his pack.

“Well, now we know what the mounted skulls on the way were. They were experimenting with magic. Picked on the Tranquil first since they figured because the Circles fell, no one would miss them.” 

Dalish clapped a hand over her mouth. 

“Oh, Mythal’s mercy. The poor souls.” 

Skinner’s grip on her hand tightened.    

“They won’t go far.” 

“Castle,” Grim said, enunciating clearly. 

“That’s where I’d be, too,” Krem agreed. “There can’t be more than a handful left.” 

“My bow’s useless in the dark,” Stitches said. “Take Skinner in front. I’ll watch your backs.” 

In the end, Rocky brought up the rear, Stitches and the two elves flanking Krem and Grim as they crept forward through the secret passageway into the castle, past the mangled bodies of the servants. 

In the end, they entered the blood-drenched room, the remaining mages stinking of incense and intestines, and dispatched all but one with no finesse. There was precious little justice to be had, but they could at least avenge them. 

In the end, with heavy hearts, the Chargers gathered everything useful they could and returned to Haven. 

A futile effort. Their scraps gave the Nightingale nothing that the prisoner had not already confessed. He frothed and railed in his cell, blaming a man named Dorian Pavus for the whole debacle, all too eager to see blood spilled that wasn’t his. The Iron Bull, just returned from fighting an envy demon with eight limbs that had fucked with the Inquisitor’s head and far too many red templars, bought half the tavern that night and got them so shitfaced their hangovers lasted for the whole week. This only compounded the headache the freshly conscripted templars caused, but Stitches would take any distraction he could get to get out of his own head.

At least they picked up a lead out of it, he reasoned, tucking himself into the bedroll he and Krem now shared. They tracked down entire caravans during the busy season in Nevarra. What was one magister? 


	4. Chapter 4

To Dorian Pavus’s credit, he was the easiest lead The Chargers had ever encountered.

Running through the Frostbacks, throwing yourself against the gates, and barreling into your stronghold to warn the villagers of Haven and the Inquisition against the certain death a darkspawn magister, his archdemon, and his army of red templars and corrupted mages would readily provide would do that.

Granted, this deescalated the situation from certain death to mostly certain death, but even Krem at his most critical had to admire the sheer bravery and strength of will Dorian possessed to do all that and aid with the evacuation efforts. The altus had saved countless lives.

Stitches let him wrestle with that. He had work to do.

In the future, he supposed, much would be made of the search for the Herald and the journey to find shelter. He marked it in long stretches of work and short stretches of exhaustion. Between the other healers, the mages, Dalish, and the physician, Stitches saw half of Haven’s population the night it fell. Krem and the others checked on him and Dalish regularly, but as the march went on, his patients drastically increased. When they finally reached Skyhold and arranged for lodgings, he collapsed onto his bedroll and didn’t wake up for three days.

Compared to the pace they kept on the long march, the trip back to Haven to scout the remains a couple of months later was an Antivan holiday. Digging through the rubble kept their hands busy, though it was grim, unsatisfying work. They laid the remains out side by side on a canvas tarp to be buried later, doing their best to piece together the bodies fragmented by debris. They prayed the last rites for the dead at the end of the day before supper, glad for the lack of any Chantry clergy. A sister would not conveniently ignore how Stitches’ Andraste sounded much more similar to the Lady of the Skies, much less the mabari, and would bar Dalish and Rocky from offering up their gods to help the restless souls find peace.

At the end of the third day, the wind took on a particularly bitter chill. Stitches returned from washing up in the nearby river and promptly flopped on their bedroll, wrapping himself in all the blankets he could reach.

Krem snorted when he came in and saw him.

“Comfortable?”

“Hot stones would be nice.”

He chuckled.

“Then you’re lucky I’ve come bearing gifts.”

Carefully arranging the cloth packages in his hands at the bottom of the bedroll, he stripped down.

“You going to share?”

Stitches motioned for him.

“Come here.”

Krem sat between his legs, back leaning against his chest, and Stitches wrapped him in the rest of the blankets. He sighed contentedly, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against Stitches’ shoulder.

“Let’s not leave the tent for the rest of the night.”

“If I yell loud enough, Skinner might throw us dinner,” said Stitches drily.

“Could pull rank and see if she throws us drinks, too.”

Krem rested his temple against his cheek.

“Maker. And we’re not even halfway through the pile.”

“I saw as much during the Blight,” said Stitches quietly. “Can’t imagine you did, though.”

Krem sighed.

“I was stationed in Qarinus for most of my military career. We’d go around to other cities, but that was our home base. My third year in, we had two rival magisters vying for control of the city council. One day, we fended off an attack by a large fleet of pirates with the help of the city guard. Lot of them were wet behind the ears, though, so we lost most of them along with the pirates. Some of ours, too. The magisters came to our aid, then after the battle ended, they argued about whose fault it was. Things got heated. The bodies weren’t even cold and they just—“

He fell silent. Stitches squeezed him gently.

“The city completely brushed it off and we cleaned up their mess. You know how these things go.”

“I can guess.”

Stitches replied.

“Terrible thing, to have to lay this many dead to rest,” said Krem.

“Especially with the weight on our shoulders of being in charge,” he agreed.

“I think,” Krem said, turning his head sideways to face him. “That I’d like us to stop being lieutenants right now and just be two people in a tent cleaning up the aftermath of a disaster trying to seek solace.”

“Solace,” Stitches mused, leaning in. “I like the sound of that.”

Naturally, they comforted each other in the wake of the horrors they witnessed. Krem kissed him softly, wearily, as if he would shatter at the slightest touch and all hope would be lost. Stitches coaxed him into boldness, rubbing his back, stroking his hair and neck, cupping his face to smooth his thumbs over Krem’s cheekbones. With a soft whump, Krem straddled Stitches, pushing him back onto the bedroll.

“Oi, you, mind the blankets.”

Krem laughed in spite of himself.

“Thought I’d be the one saying that.”

“Oh, you’ll be saying something all right,” Stitches replied, hand tightening at the back of his neck to yank him back in again and roll them over.

“Prove it,” Krem quipped, then groaned when Stitches nipped the juncture between his neck and shoulder hard.

Hands wandering, clothes hastily discarded, they settled into a lazy rhythm, hips rocking slowly against each other. After they had mouthed at and marked each other’s necks for a while, Krem rolled them over again to be on top. He shuddered at the change in angle and moaned, spreading his legs further while rubbing himself up against Stitches. He stroked his shoulders and hips, let Krem bring his hands to his chest and his ass to touch him. He grew bolder when he was on top, taking Stitches apart with his hands the same way he was coming undone, and then, his mouth.

Stitches shivered underneath him, gasping for breath. His heart pounded, blood roaring in his ears like a river as Krem’s cries matched his, a crescendo of hitched breathing and cries of a divine ecstasy—

Alive, alive, alive.

In spite of all odds, in this desecrated place of death and decaying, lost hopes and dreams, alive.

Krem snuggled into his side when he lay down and Stitches obliged, lifting up an arm to let him get closer. For a long time, they said nothing, the two of them staring up at the ceiling of the tent.

“Maker.”

Stitches exhaled, breaking the silence. Krem gave him the biggest grin he had ever seen.

“Some solace, right? Could do with a bit more of that, in a while.”

“I haven’t come that fast since I was a teenager,” Stitches confessed. “I think I need to recover.”

“Well, I am that good,” Krem said with an infuriating smugness.

Stitches whapped his arm lightly with his free hand. It failed to wipe the smirk off his face. Still, the mutual relief between them was palpable. Krem’s warmth, breath, and presence comforted him greatly and Stitches was certain he shared the sentiment.

The solace, as they referred to it, became a ritual as they excavated Haven, buried the dead, scavenged for supplies, and looked for anyone who might have survived. They would lie there and talk, anything and everything on the table. The sex took an occasional backseat to their conversations. Stitches found the emotional intimacy welcome, but daunting. He barely talked about himself and yet, Krem became one of the three Chargers who knew his name, the details of his family, the lone two year relationship he had with the butcher’s son in the village at fifteen, his life before and after the Blight.

In turn, Krem told him about his sisters, father, and mother, growing up in Tevinter’s heartland, their plight that sent his father into slavery, his struggles with his gender identity that being a teenager in a poor family only exacerbated, the disastrous arranged marriage that sent him running off to war, his service on the borders of Tevinter.  Stitches told him about his oldest sister then, about her transition and challenges, and while they didn’t belabor it, he could tell it helped put Krem at ease. 

When they returned to Skyhold, he fully expected it to stop. After the hustle and bustle of his first day back in the healing tents, Stitches left at dusk, the torch in his hand bobbing in the darkness. Limping up the steps, he opened the door to a lit room and saw Krem sitting at the desk with two steins and a plate.

“You missed dinner.”

“Oh, bless you,” Stitches replied, blowing the torch out and discarding it, then sinking onto the bed.

“What in the Maker’s name happened to your leg?”

“Someone dosed a warrior with too much deep mushroom essence and I got to wrestle him back into bed.”

“Lucky you,” Krem said wryly, moving to the bed and helping him prop it up.

“Lucky me. What’s that bruise on your cheek about?”

“Had a right arse in the batch of recruits I’m training as a favor to the commander. He’d been caught bullying other recruits before and I took him to task when he tried to get smart with me. I thought about heading to the tavern, but you’ve had such a long day, I figured you might want to commiserate.”

He said it guardedly, but Stitches could see the hesitance in his gestures.

“Well, if you’d like to plot revenge, I’d be more than happy to help.”

Krem offered him a pint of ale, then clinked steins with him.

“To that, then, and a slow day tomorrow.”

* * *

Alas, when one signed up for the Inquisition, there was no such thing as a slow day.

A week later, the Ben Hassrath issued an unprecedented offer of alliance to the Inquisition. Skyhold went wild, the advisors and inner circle nearly exhausting themselves with the preparations. Unfortunately, an unforeseen consequence of the bargain reared its ugly head the minute the signal fire for the dreadnought was lit. The Qun demanded the ultimate sacrifice for The Iron Bull’s loyalty, one Bull, enabled by the Inquisitor, refused to give. The Chargers retreated to safety without even a scratch, the dreadnought sank and thus ended Par Vollen’s first and last alliance with the Inquisition.

That night, after fussing over the rest of the Chargers with a vengeance, Stitches and Dalish switched roles with The Iron Bull, whisked off to the tent and pulled into his embrace. His great bulk shaking with an overwhelming cacophony of emotions, they held him tenderly, reassuring him of their love and support and insisting he was never the monster he thought himself to be without the Qun’s guidance.

“He’s too good for them,” Stitches said fiercely in bed that night, laying on Krem’s chest.

“Always was,” Krem agreed, placing a kiss to his forehead.

“He hesitated.”

Krem’s eyebrows raised.

“He hates himself for it. Feels he as good as killed us.” 

Krem sighed.

“Can’t say I’m surprised. Hard to unlearn that when you’ve never known anything else since childhood, no matter where your orders are coming from. I’ll talk to him in the morning, see what I can’t knock out of his thick head.”  

He prodded Stitches gently when he failed to respond.

“Are you all right?”

“It’s…uncomfortable. I’m not a soldier, but he’s always put us before himself. I can’t understand it.”

“Are you angry?”

“At them. I was a little at him, at first. Then he said he’d understand if we left and we yelled at him because we built this damn company together and he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

He looked up at Krem.

“Well, the second best.”

Krem chuckled.

“He helped me meet you. I’ll let him have that title.”

“We already decided not to tell the others. Didn’t think it would help any. You should talk to Dalish, too, though. I’m sure she’s having the same thoughts.”

“I will. You’re allowed to be angry, you know. Just don’t let it fester.”

“I know.”

Stitches kissed him.

“He’s a good man, and so are you.”

“I do try,” said Krem, imitating his driest tone, and Stitches couldn’t help but laugh and kiss him again.

Fortunately, Stitches didn’t have the luxury of time to dwell. As soon as they returned, the Inquisition began to gear up in preparation for the assault on Adamant Fortress in the Western Approach. They agreed that the Chargers would establish a waystation between the main battle at the fortress and the Inquisition camps, in case they had to retreat and the survivors needed extra protection to return home safely. Despite the sheer effort prepping the kits for the battlefield mages and healers to hold them over until they could get their patients to the tents took, Stitches found himself worrying for Krem significantly more than he usually worried for the others. He wondered if he did the same, but never asked. They woke up tired and went to bed tired, then a month later, the Inquisition and all allied forces marched off to battle.    

When the poets spoke of the battle for Adamant Fortress years later, they did so in lofty terms. Their inspiring language aimed to stir any red-blooded fool to great enough heights where they would wholeheartedly give themselves to the all-consuming beast that was war. Noble displays of power, brave, patriotic acts of camaraderie, the glory of Andraste anointing the Inquisition and Her Herald with the divine right to reclaim the whole of Thedas and deliver them from evil.

Stitches wanted to find them all and shake them till their teeth rattled out of their skulls.

The battle for Adamant was nasty, brutish, and showed no signs of ending. The wounded formed a steady parade through the healing tents in the waystation, often fast approaching death, their only hope of survival Stitches and Dalish’s efforts. Countless hours of marching to the waystation and readying it, at least twelve hours on their feet tending the injured and easing the suffering of the soon to be dead, Stitches barely registered the snippets of time where they snatched a moment to eat or drink or rest before returning to the tireless onslaught of bodies. The tide finally ebbed in the early hours of the morning.

Scout Harding delivered them grim news.

“The Inquisitor and the Champion fell into the Fade with their companions, The Iron Bull among them.”

Dalish turned white.

“How long?”

Stitches demanded.

“For four hours now.”

Dalish found her voice.

“Can they get out?”

“We don’t know. All we can do is wait. They asked me to come bring you up because we have too many people at the tents in the fort and not enough people still standing to bring any of them back here.”

Frozen to the spot, Krem said nothing. Stitches answered for them.

“Give us a moment to gather our things. We’ll let you know when we’re ready to move.”

Krem’s voice cracked after she left.

“I told him we wouldn’t even _see_ this many demons. _Maker._ What have I done?”

“He’ll get out.”

“You don’t know that.”  

He was panicking. Stitches was almost there, too.

“We need to move. He’d want us to move. The Mark is no good to Corypheus stuck in the Fade. They’ll get out.”  

“Right,” Krem said heavily, avoiding his eyes. “Let’s go.”


	5. Chapter 5

They packed, then left in silence. The healers’ tents buzzed, a relentless explosion of sound, the living, the dead, and the dying crammed into the same small space. Stitches and Dalish carved out a spot to plunge into. Grim and Rocky stood guard to guide the stretcher carriers. Krem and Skinner fought with the other soldiers and remaining wardens near the top of the stairs, holding off the demons looking for easy prey. Immersed in his work, Stitches didn’t spare them a glance. Too many people needed his help.

When Krem fell, his hands were deep in a soldier’s stomach. Helpless, he watched Skinner lunge into the air with a screech and drag her daggers down the demon’s front. She dropped to the ground and screamed for help, her hands covering his ribs with a handkerchief. Shaking, Stitches saw him be moved onto a stretcher and carried away. Dalish put her hand on his shoulder, then helped him finish stitching up the wound and move the poor woman to a clean bed.

“They can’t move him from where he is. He’s hurt too badly. I’ll go to him. You hold things here.”

Dalish darted out of the tent, disappearing into the crowd. Stitches let her go. He was the better healer of the two and she could do more good for them both by staying with Krem and advocating for him than he could.  Fighting the lump in his throat, tears stinging the corners of his eyes, Stitches returned to his work.

When he finally took off his gloves and exited the tent a mere two hours before dawn, Rocky stepped in front of him.

“Stitches, you need to sleep—“

“I need to go.”

“Stitches, we can’t—“

To his horror, his own voice cracked on a sob.

“They’re going to bleed him if I’m not there, he’s going to die—“

“Stitches—“

“Let me see him.”

“Stitches, please—“

The tears flowed freely now.

“Let me go, let me see him, please, Andraste, let me—“

“Hey! What’s going on here?”  

The Iron Bull interrupted, jogging over to them. Stitches latched onto him, grabbing his arms.

“Chief, you’re alive! We thought you were dead!”

Bull took one look at him and pulled him into a hug.

“You know me. If I don’t keep the hair off your head, I’m not doing my job.”

Stitches gurgled a laugh through the sobs.

“There you go. That’s it. That’s my guy. This is about Krem, isn’t it? Koslun’s balls, you two are a pair.”

“He’s alive?”   

“The blow looked worse than it was. Stubborn little shit kept insisting he had these same injuries before and fled Nevarra just fine, he should be able to get up and go see you or he’d never forgive himself.”

Trying to get his breathing back, Stitches looked up at him.

“Is Dalish—“

“I had Dorian take over for her to translate and make sure they kept up what she insisted they do. She exhausted herself trying to talk him back into bed before I came around and let him cry on me a while.”

“I want to see him.”

“I know,” said The Iron Bull gently. “But I just got him to sleep before Grim came and got me for you. You’d just make each other more upset; you wouldn’t be able to talk. You were in the heat of battle. Things were tense. You got short with each other. It happens to everyone. Krem’s not mad. He was terrified you thought the silent treatment was the last thing he’d ever say to you.”

Stitches sighed, leaning his full weight against Bull’s bulk. He let him.

“You won’t do him any good running yourself ragged. Come sleep. I’ll take you to see him first thing.”

Drained, Stitches let himself be led to a tent and helped onto a bedroll, eyelids snapping shut the moment his head hit the Bull’s bicep. As promised, Bull took him to see Krem right after he woke up. The most either of them could do was be there, but nonetheless, Krem’s recovery hastened in his presence. They returned back to Skyhold, back to their previous quiet existence. The impact of the events of Adamant Fortress didn’t hit Stitches until two weeks after the Chargers destroyed it, in the middle of the report he was writing.

Chest aching, he laid the papers and quill on the desk. He still had a few questions to clarify with the commander before proceeding. Heading out to the war room, he spotted Krem, only Krem, inside. Everything came to a head at once. Stitches sped up, slamming the door shut behind him once he was inside. Krem turned around, surprised.

“Stitches, what—“

He practically pounced on him, forcing him back onto the table.

“There’s a war on.”

He panted after kissing Krem as if he had been holding his breath for eight years.

“I know.”

Krem exhaled, doe eyed, reaching up to wrap his hands around his neck.

“You almost died.”

“I know.”

He stroked Krem’s cheek.

“I can’t lose you.”

“I can’t lose you, either,” Krem breathed.

They kissed again, then Stitches bent his head to mouth a trail down the side of Krem’s neck. He vaguely heard Rocky and Dalish in the background, assuming the hoots and hollers had just carried from the main hall. Right now, his sole priority was attending to Krem’s neck until he was putty in his hands. Beneath him, Krem writhed and groaned, eagerly wrapping his legs around Stitches’ thigh and rocking up into his knee. Greedily, Stitches sucked soft skin into his mouth and bit, holding him there. Breath hitching, Krem gasped, then cried out when Stitches wore at it, arching into the hand stroking his--

A firm, polite cough caught their attention. Cullen stood in the doorway, arms folded, clearly wishing he was anywhere else. He looked at them almost apologetically. Hastily, Stitches ensured he couldn’t see Krem and yanked up his trousers. Krem lay there on the table, staring at the commander as one would at a tap dancing mabari.   

“I’ll have your captain deal with this,” he said stiffly.

The silence hung heavily between them until The Iron Bull arrived.

“Sorry I’m late. Dalish and Rocky interrupted me in the middle of something and I had to deal with it.”

“I appreciate your help with this matter.”

Cullen gestured to the two of them.

“I need you to discipline your men for inappropriate conduct regarding Inquisition resources.”

He snorted.

“Good one. What’s this really about?”

The tips of Cullen’s ears reddened.

“I’m being completely serious. They were engaged in some rather—vigorous activities that were _not_ planning troop movements, if you catch my meaning, and I interrupted them.”  

The Iron Bull frowned. 

“Cullen, I like a good joke as much as anyone else, but this has gone on long enough.”

It was at that moment Krem poked his head out from around Stitches’ shoulder. Pure shock spread across the Bull’s features. Shifting, Stitches saw him discreetly place a steadying hand on the table.

“Commander,” he said calmly. “If you would excuse us, please. I’ll discipline them now.”

Cullen, all too eager to leave, bowed out so fast his heels caught fire.  

“ _You_ ,” he exhaled vehemently at Stitches, completely gobsmacked.

“Ser, do we really—“

“Stitches,” The Iron Bull said flatly. “You put your socks at the bottom of your pack first thing when it’s time to get ready. You drink the same brown ale at every tavern because you think everything else is mud or water. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who finds folding laundry soothing and you lay your bedroll out last out of all of us.”

“Bull—“

“ _For the last eight years, Stitches._ ”

He pointed to Krem.

“ _And you_ , you tear out the thread and sew up the rips in the tents again when no one’s looking if you think the stitches are crooked. So, yeah, I’m a _little fucking_ blindsided. I didn’t see this coming from the two most predictable members of my company, much less my lieutenant and my healer and acting second lieutenant.”

Silence hung between the three of them. Stitches nudged Krem gently with his hip, then gave The Iron Bull a shit-eating grin.

“Well, you can’t call us predictable now, can you, ser.”

About to laugh, Bull caught himself.

“Stop.”

“Aw, he’s jealous he didn’t think of it first,” Krem crooned. “Afraid you’re losing your touch, chief?”

“Stop _it_.”

It sounded distinctly mirthful. Krem and Stitches exchanged glances, then Krem nodded at him with a grin.

“I’m sure Dorian will forgive you for your lack of innovation if you flex at him long enough—“

That finally broke him. The Iron Bull laughed long and hard, in spite of himself. When he quieted down, Stitches helped Krem up.

“All right, lovebirds. I can’t actually bring myself to be mad at you. If Cullen hadn’t been in here first, I’d have let you off with a warning. I’m going to put you on latrine duty for two weeks, but Cadash has a soft spot for you both. If you throw yourself on her mercy when I’m out of earshot, I’m sure she’ll happily make me knock it down to a week. Sound good?”

“Good as we’re going to get, I suppose,” said Krem, adjusting his trousers.

“Just don’t get caught next time like everybody else, you ungrateful little shits.”

The Iron Bull grumbled with a complete and utter lack of venom in his voice.

“All right. Let’s go make this official.”

They trailed behind him into the courtyard, the rest of the Chargers already gathered to see what the end result of the commotion was. Dalish and Rocky exchanged smug glances when they joined them.

“So, it’s true. Krem and Stitches were indeed fucking on the war table and Cullen caught them after you.”

He glowered at Rocky and Dalish.

“I’m still mad, though. Anyway, for the inappropriate requisitioning and improper use of Inquisition resources, Krem and Stitches, you’re on latrine duty for two weeks in addition to your normal work. As for you, Rocky and Dalish, the biggest gossipmongers I’ve ever seen in my life, you’re mucking out the dracolisk stalls instead of the stable hands for a month. You know what they say. Snitches get—“

The Iron Bull paused. A terrible grin spread across his face from ear to ear.

“Well, actually—“

“Ser, don’t you dare,” Stitches said flatly.

“This time,” he continued doggedly.

“ _Maker, no_ ,” Krem groaned up at the sky to an uncaring, unforgiving god.

“Snitches _got_ Stitches,” The Iron Bull finished, reveling in his own cleverness.

“I’m leaving this company,” Skinner muttered darkly.

The Iron Bull sobered.

“You’re still being punished, though.”

Dalish gasped.

“Whatever for, ser?”

“You burst into my room yelling ‘CHIEF, HOLY FUCK’ at the top of your lungs after you picked the lock to get in. You were lucky you took Dorian by surprise and he only threw up a barrier over the doorframe.”

“We did knock,” Dalish said primly.

Bull squinted at her.

“ _Did you_. Did you _really_.”

Coyly, she looked up at him and batted her eyelashes.

“Ser, you know full well I have never done anything wrong ever in my entire life.”  

“It pains me to say this, but…you have done this one thing wrong.”

Dalish gasped loudly again, clutching her heart with one hand.

“I’m not pressing my luck after that, ser,” Rocky said quickly. 

“Good man.”

“Kissass,” Skinner coughed at the same time.

The Iron Bull frowned at her.

“You want to muck out the dracolisk stalls instead of the stable hands for a month with these two?”

“No.”

“ _No, what?_ ”

“No, _ser_.”

“That’s right.”

“If you’re done disciplining the children, amatus, I do believe we were in the middle of something.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows meaningfully after acknowledging the rest of the company with a nod. Neither Dalish nor Rocky had the decency to even attempt to look slightly guilty for their intrusion.

“Yeah. A whole lot of something.”

The Iron Bull grinned, stepping forward to catch his hand, their fingers loosely intertwining.

“Little fuzzy on the details, though. Why don’t you show me, big guy?”

“I suppose I could refresh your memory,” mused Dorian, tugging him towards the stairs to the battlements. “Though I would hate to think you found our work so unmemorable as to forget it.”

“Oh, I’ve got the big picture just fine,” The Iron Bull purred and swooped him up for a kiss.

Dorian settled into his embrace as if meant for it, Bull carrying him off with a spring in his step. The Chargers dispersed, leaving Krem and Stitches alone.

“So, that talk we had,” said Stitches carefully. “We probably should have had it when we weren’t as…”

“Distracted?”

Krem supplied.

“Right.”

Krem nodded thoughtfully.

“And this thing we’ve got…we should probably announce our relationship later—“

“Because as far as beginnings go, this would be a piss poor start.”

Stitches finished.

“Right.”

Stitches took a deep breath.

“I love you.”

Krem smiled, taking both his hands in his.

“I know. I love you, too. That’s why I want to get this right.”

His grin turned impish.

“I could court you, if you like. Bring you flowers.”

“You’re not thinking Ferelden enough,” Stitches chided him, grinning back so hard his cheeks hurt. “A keg of beer, a cured ham, and a cheese wheel, three goats and a sheaf of wheat, a mabari. I’d be hard pressed to turn down any of that.”

“So no flowers, then?”

“You could start with a kiss.”

Krem chuckled and tugged him outside.

“Think I can manage that.”

* * *

The events at Halamshiral provided a much needed break for the Chargers. Stationed in Val Royeaux, they scouted the existing mercenary companies and waited to buy them out with Josephine’s help after the ball came to pass. Though the Chargers held no official political stances, Stitches breathed a quiet sigh of relief when hearing Toril had taken one look at Gaspard and immediately put the whole of Orlais in timeout. A triumvirate was risky, but they only needed it to last for a couple more months and then, if necessary, they could turn their attention to cleaning up Orlais. Since neither side could really argue that neither Gaspard nor Celene had been given unfair treatment, the majority of the nobles gladly acquiesced to their demands and allowed themselves to be bought out. The rest, Josephine’s letters brought into line in short order.

Riding high off their successes, Stitches returned to the room he and Krem shared at the inn with a spring in his step and a basket under his arm. Humming one of Maryden’s songs softly at the desk, Krem was finishing up a letter to the advisors to inform them of their new contracts and what all that entailed. Stitches set the basket on the bed, then leaned over the back of the chair to press a kiss to the back of his neck.

“We can head down to the tavern in a few minutes for supper,” Krem said, leaning back to return it.

“There’s no need,” Stitches replied, draping his arms over Krem’s shoulders. “I’ve got plans for tonight.”

“Really.”

He sounded impossibly fond.  

“Thought you’d like to be courted, too.”

Taking a look at the contents of the basket, Krem’s eyes lit up at the sight of the bottle.

“Where did you even get that vintage? I’ve never seen anyone who wasn’t an altus drinking it.”

“I may have pulled a few strings with the demands when one of our last contracts tried to get difficult. Reminded him of our patronage and his responsibilities and that we don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Clever and handsome,” Krem crowed, lightly tracing his collarbone with a finger.

Stitches kissed him again.

“We won’t have a night to ourselves for a long while, so I thought it’d be best we take one.”

“I’m impressed you found all this Tevene food in one week.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”  

“Then, let’s eat and later, if you’re lucky, I can show you some of mine.”

Best to keep it lighthearted, especially now. After a luxuriously lazy evening that lasted for a good part of the morning, the Chargers concluded their business in Val Royeaux and set off for the Arbor Wilds in earnest to intimidate the remaining Venatori into thinking they had the bigger, better army.  

“Rattles on our boots?”

Stitches said incredulously to Krem as they laced them up the next morning.

“Trust me, it helps. Old military trick. Used to do it in Qarinus at night when the pirates got antsy.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

Krem gave him his most charming grin.

“Amatus.”

“Yes, love,” Stitches deadpanned, rolling his eyes, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a begrudging smile. “You’re very dashing and handsome and if you get any sharper, you’ll cut yourself, Maker bless your soul.”

True to Krem’s word, it worked. They returned with a map and a handful of supplies they scavenged from the small Venatori force they had overwhelmed with their efforts. A week after their return, Corypheus attacked their stronghold in earnest. Skyhold fought with all its might on the ground while the dragons grappled in the air above them. The Inquisitor and her party ran up onto the column of earth Corypheus had chosen to fight from and after the demons ceased, they waited at the bottom.

She descended just before dawn, her triumphant expression glowing in the early morning light. The deafening cheers of Skyhold as the breach in the sky closed could be heard throughout all of Thedas. They celebrated right away, eating, drinking, and dancing until their feet hurt. More than a few couples stole away for a quiet moment of gratitude, Stitches and Krem among them. When they returned to the crowd, clothes askew, hair mussed, the Chargers whooped and whistled at the two of them. Stitches took an exaggerated bow, Krem flipping them the bird behind him.

“Stitches! Krem! Get over here!”

The Iron Bull bellowed, Dorian wincing a little at the noise on his lap.

“It’s time for the song before the boss makes her speech!”

“We changed the words!” Rocky called to them.

“Messing with a good thing, then?” Stitches teased, pulling out a chair to sit.

“No,” said Dalish from her perch on Skinner’s lap.

“Prove it,” said Krem, settling on Stitches’ lap with a kiss.

“Trust us,” said Grim with a grin. “It’s good.”

_“No magister can beat the Chargers, ‘cause we’ll hit you where it hurts,_

_Even if you’ve got a tavern with loose cards and looser skirts,_

_For every bloody battlefield, we’ve gladly raised a cup,_

_No matter what the future holds, our horns be pointing up!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Hello, hello, hello. 
> 
> Did everybody see that because, wow, I have never written this many words in one setting. I don't know if I'll be doing that again. Anyways, before I talk shop a little, a few thank yous are in order. A big thank you to [my darling M](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSplatterM/pseuds/InkSplatterM), who was my primary beta and soundboard for this monster and another one to the lovely [keita52](http://archiveofourown.org/users/keita52/pseuds/keita52) for a second pair of eyes. I'd also like to thank[my dearest, goopiest Goop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads) for talking me out of a ridiculous last minute subplot and [my wonderful, incredible FozzieBearMan](http://fozziebearman.tumblr.com/), a gentleman and a scholar who let me scream and whine at him across the Atlantic at odd hours about the trials and tribulations of rare pair hell. 
> 
> So, about the story. As I do with other stuff, I was writing it in tandem with a Dalish/Skinner piece I'd been working on for a while unrelated to this exchange, because that's how I gauge which story is going to be the one. I have a lot of very specific headcanons about the founding of the Chargers and their travels, so it was good shit either way, but I ended up getting so excited about my backstory for Stitches that I created, this one won out. (Magekiller's a little weird because it asserts Stitches is a rogue rather than a warrior, so I just headcanoned he picks up a sword when he needs to and acts as one of the company rogues most of the time.) I've kind of being going through some stuff in my personal life, so it was a very busy couple of months where I'd come home from work tired and struggling to put down words. I'd also grown to loathe anything I did write. I ended up asking a writer whose work I've read for a while and admired greatly, [Dragonflies_and_Katydids](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids)for advice anonymously because I was at the end of my rope. 
> 
> She gave me exactly what I needed to hear: permission to suck. 
> 
> The good thing is, it worked and I owe her a great deal of thanks. Now I can't turn it off (but seriously, thank you). 
> 
> I really do hope, dear recipient, that this work brightens your day a little. I put my heart and soul into it and despite my griping near the end, I really did have fun. I'm already planning a sequel. Anyways, I wish you the best and I can't wait to hear what you think. Thanks again for the honor of letting me be your creative partner.


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